


Tunes in the Morning Sun

by Jaelijn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Music, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-30
Updated: 2010-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:22:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26044936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: The beauty of a certain instrument...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Kudos: 2





	Tunes in the Morning Sun

**Author's Note:**

> _Archiving note:_ I am importing this fic to AO3 in August 2020 for archiving purposes. It has not been edited since its original publication in 2010.
> 
>  _Original A/N on LJ:_ Well, can you figure out which POV it is? ;)

It sat on the table beside the chemistry set, quite inconspicuously, secured from acids and other chemicals by the battered leather case.

I flipped open the latch, running my finger carefully along the line of its wooden body, the brightly polished surface of most excellent spruce. The neck morphed into the body seamlessly – the work of a master, quite so. Fitting to fingers more skilled than mine – a master's hand, indeed; if not in the field of music, in another certainly.

My fingers moved gently over the strings, avoiding to awaken a tone even if it be but brief. They felt soft under my fingertips, hardly giving way. When I picked up the bow, there was a low sound which rang through the silence like a soft summer breeze.

I placed my hand on the strings to silence them. I did not want to disturb the morning's silence, not yet.

But as I caressed the bow with my trembling fingers, I could almost hear the music now, filling the sitting room of 221B. But I placed the bow back in the case, brushing my fingertip over the one scar in the wood it retained up until today.

I closed the lid on her, flipping the latch shut again. My hand rested on the many wounds that marred the leather – wounds that could not be mended. But they had yet to touch her. She remained a symbol of perfection.

“Watson? What are you doing?”

I looked up, my hand still resting on the violin case. Inside, I seemed to feel the gentle music trying to break free, chaffing against the silence as did my mind.

“Would you like to play? I wouldn't mind.”

My over-active imagination could already hear the violin's cry of joy. Soon, the music would once again fill the room, suspending space and time in motion.

“If you want me to.”

“I would very much like to hear you play, Holmes.”

“Very well.”

I opened the lid, not daring to pick up the instrument. It shone in the morning sun, tunes, waiting to be freed, glittering like dust in the beams. I felt a smile spreading on my face at such a romantic notion. With silence and calm, I had reached my goal. She would sing again.

Her master's hand came to rest upon her neck, long fingers closing around the strings.

“Are you sure, Watson?”

“Yes; I do apologize for my words. I didn't mean to insult you.”

“Indeed.”

The violin found its way all too easily.

“Then, pray, hand me the bow, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
